


Raise A Glass

by nerdbird26



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Avengers 4 predictions, Depression, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Pre-Iron Man 1, Spoilers, Tony-centric, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 23:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16005506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdbird26/pseuds/nerdbird26
Summary: People drank for two occasions: when they're happy and when they're sad. Tony Stark had learned that from his father, as well as himself. That's what he had always thought, and it made sense. People filled their shot glasses and fancy glasses of champagne during special occasions: parties, holidays, celebrations. On the other hand, cups of whiskey would litter the desk of a grieving parent or frustrated businessman. He was not unfamiliar with either situation.





	Raise A Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the song "Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You" by Frankie Valli.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They say it's genetic, they say he can't help it, they say you can catch it, but sometimes you're born with it._

_1991_

He could only imagine the carnage. The police had given him a brief description of the scene to spare him from the bothersome details. But he imagined it. As he sat down in his father's workshop that he was never allowed in, he imagined. And it sounds sick; a son thinking about the bloody death of his mother and father. It's not like he wanted to imagine it; he just did. The thought of his father's dead body lurched forward into the front window of his car, while his mother laid limp in the passenger seat. Blood and shattered glass was probably everywhere. His mind kept churning out these thoughts. His body despised the feeling, like when you touch fire and your body is supposed to pull away instantly. But he didn't pull away.

Tony was sitting on the floor next to one of the desks in the workshop. His knees were pulled up to his chin. Everything was shaky and unstable, like an earthquake was occuring right now in the solitude room. His hands kept pulling at his own clothes and hair and skin, desperate to remove himself from the world like a page from a book. His mind kept flashing back to his gruesome painting he created in his mind. His legs were starting to fall asleep.

Tony struggled to stand up, balancing himself against the wall and desk. He was sick and tired and far too awake this moment. He limped toward the alcohol cabinet in the corner of the room. It was no secret that Howard drank; empty bottles and glasses were scattered around the house. He would come home from meetings smelling of booze. He would stumble around the house and mutter nonsense. Then one of two things would happen: Tony's mom would get fed up with Howard and argue with him (even if it left her bruised and bleeding), or Tony would be the victim of his father's drunken rage.

When he was very young, around 5 or 6 years old, he wouldn't understand why his father hit him. He had done nothing wrong. But when he did ask why, Howard always had an answer. So everytime Howard came home like that, Tony didn't need to ask why. He just knew it was something he did.

He unlocked the alcohol cabinet with a key that his father left in one of the desk drawers. Inside was a confusing array of drinks ranging from completely clear to golden browns and deep reds. When he was at MIT, he would go to several college parties and everytime, without fail, he would get drunk. It didn't matter that he was underage or that he was the son of the most famous business man in the world. He would chug down the cheap beer and take shots of vodka. But the alcohol his father's cabinet was fancier and way more expensive. He took out a whiskey bottle since he was somewhat familiar with it. He poured himself a good serving into a glass with "Howard Stark" carved into it.

The drink slipped into his throat, burning his tongue as it went down. His head instantly started throbbing, overwhelmed by the cup's contents. But the throbbing passed and it was replaced by a soothing numbness in the pit of his stomach. His skin tingled at the feel. He poured himself another glass and took it down. The throbbing returned, but soon came the numb feeling in his gut. As he looked around the workshop, the tables and desks and blueprints and computers became blurry. It was as if the lines that contained these shapes were gone. The edges of everything became smoother. Even his thoughts seemed out of focus.

The image of the car accident was indecipherable. The blood was still prominent, but the faces of his parents were dulled down to a blur. Tony drank one more glass of whiskey. The image was now distorted into a cloud of red. Nothing more. His legs trembled underneath him. He sat on the floor again, still holding the cup and bottle. He poured himself another drink.

Tony learned that day that he likes to look at the world this way: blurry, messy, distorted, smooth.

*

_1999_

The banquet hall was a complete mess. Vacant of people, but littered with everything human. Articles of clothing, empty glasses and bottles of alcohol, streamers. It was so fucking ugly. It was just an ugly sight. Howard never had his parties like this; they were always formal and orderly. He would have hated it. He would have walked into the empty hall and said-

No. Tony didn't give a fuck about what Howard would say. Because Howard was dead and gone. But what was Tony kidding, he didn't like it either. He hated it. It was ugly. Fuck.

Tony was sitting at one of the round tables, its discarded white table cloth laying on the floor. He popped open a bottle of red wine and lazily poured himself a drink. Some of the contents spilled over the rim of the glass. He chugged the drink down and repeated the process for the sixth or seventh time. He was still filling his glass with more bittersweet red alcohol when Obadiah walked into the room.

"Jesus Christ, Tony! What the hell are you still doing here?!" God how he hated it when Obadiah yelled. No matter how drunk he was, his voice still sounded like nails on a chalkboard. He kept drinking. His business partner, who was hovering over him, took the glass out of his hand and poured the contents onto the tile floor.

"Your business just moved up in the ranks of all the businesses in the world, and you're spending your time getting wasted? What would your father think of you?" Obadiah hissed. Tony didn't mind the usual insults from Obi; he would just drown them out with more alcohol. But with Obi holding him back from it, he wasn't quite sure what to do.

"I was just- ah, thinking of... dad." Tony stammered. The statement was ugly to say. It felt wrong to let it slip out of his mouth like that, especially to Obadiah. "It's been...such a long time, but..." He didn't bother to finish his sentence and just shrugged.

Obadiah's cold hard glare suddenly changed into something softer. He pulled out one of the nearby chairs and sat next to him. "Oh, Tony, your father was a great man." Yeah, sure. Tony heard that a lot, too much actually. "I know how much it must hurt for you."

Tony simply nodded without looking at him. He hated it when people only felt sympathy for him when he mentioned his father. As if he wasn't there for Tony since the very beginning. He might as well have been dead from the start.

"Listen, I have to go to a meeting, so pick yourself up, Stark. When I come back we will talk about this behavior." Obadiah left him there without another word. The large double doors of the banquet hall slammed and Tony was left in silence again. He stood up from the table and grabbed the bottle of wine. He stumbled over to the Vinyl player and the speakers that were set up on the stage. He scanned through the options of music and picked one that finally peeked his interest.

Tony hopped down from the stage as the music started building up. The intro was smooth and jazzy, flowing through his veins like the alcohol infused blood inside of him right now. He sipped straight from the bottle of wine in his hand.

_You're just too good to be true._

_Can't take my eyes off of you._

He swayed to the music on the empty dance floor. His gingerly sips turned into large gulps. He struggled not to trip on his own feet.

_You'd be like heaven to touch._

_I wanna hold you so much._

The bottle was half empty now. Tony kept "dancing" to the beat of the song.

_At long last love has arrived._

_And I thank God I'm alive._

He was humming and mumbling some of the lyrics now. The bottle was completely empty.

_You're just too good to be true._

_Can't take my eyes off of you._

Crash. Pieces of green glass was flown in every direction. The Vinyl had been knocked over by the full force of the bottle. Tony looked at the scene he had caused by his own strength. The mess was blurry. But still ugly.


End file.
